


Tag

by Kryptaria



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Established Relationship, Ficlet, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-08
Updated: 2012-11-08
Packaged: 2017-11-18 05:37:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/557480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kryptaria/pseuds/Kryptaria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is forever the soldier, always presenting a neat, composed facade to the world. Only Sherlock gets to see the real John underneath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tag

**Author's Note:**

> For typical-erinn, who had a rough night.

Faint dawn sunlight filtered through the lace curtains into the living room. Footsteps sounded on the stairs leading down from the shared upstairs bedroom. Wrapped in nothing more than a bedsheet, Sherlock looked up from his coffee and watched as John entered the kitchen. An inside-out black T-shirt was stretched tightly over his muscular shoulders. A sliver of pale skin showed at his waist where the T-shirt rode up high over faded pyjama bottoms, torn at the cuffs. His hair stood in wild spikes.

Ask anyone, and they would say that John was always neatly dressed.

In the winter, John wore his shirts buttoned to the throat under thick woolen jumpers in bland colours or awful patterns. In the summer, he left the top two buttons open, revealing the vest underneath. He never left the flat without shaving and combing his hair, which he cut every month at the corner barber shop. His nails were always trimmed and his hands scrubbed clean.

But this John, sleep-soft and rumpled, belonged only to Sherlock. This was John’s gift to him, a secret hidden away from the rest of the world. No one else would ever see John so disarrayed.

Smoothly, Sherlock uncoiled from his chair, kicking the sheet away from his legs. He set down his coffee mug and walked to the kitchen, watching as John yawned and rubbed a hand over his stubbled jaw.

As John stirred milk into his coffee, Sherlock came up behind him and ran a hand up his back. With his fingertips, Sherlock could count the vertebrae pressed against layers of muscle and tight fabric, until he brushed at the white tag hanging at the back of the shirt.

“Your shirt’s inside-out,” Sherlock observed, bending his head enough to rub his cheek over John’s spiky hair.

“Tags itch,” John complained sleepily. But he abandoned his coffee and took hold of the hem of his T-shirt, prepared to pull it off.

Sherlock caught John’s wrists. “Leave it. I like you like this.”

John leaned his head back against Sherlock’s shoulder, and let go of the T-shirt. Smiling, Sherlock snuggled against John’s broad, strong back, and the white tag scratched at his chest as he held John close.


End file.
